Page 159 of Filthy Promises

“You’re saying you approve?”

“I’m saying I’m adaptable.” He smiles as he pivots to regard me head-on. “The inheritance clause requires marriage and an heir. If this girl provides the latter, and you’re willing to marry her to fulfill the former, then who am I to stand in the way of such a convenient arrangement?”

There’s that word again.Convenient. It bothers me more than it should.

“What’s the catch?”

My father looks almost hurt. Almost. “Must there be a catch? Can’t a father simply want his son to fulfill his destiny?”

“Not you,” I say. “There’s always an angle with you.”

He sighs, setting down his empty glass. “The ‘angle,’ as you put it, is simple. The child must be raised as an Akopov. Properly educated in our ways. Our traditions.”

Something protective surges in my chest. “The child will be raised as I see fit.”

“Of course,” he agrees, far too easily to be believed. “You are the father. But certain expectations must be met. The child must understand its heritage. Its responsibilities.”

“Its responsibilities?” I echo. “It will be an infant.”

“Infants grow, Vincent.” He moves closer, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that reminds me too much of myself. “And this particular infant must grow faster than most.”

I recognize the hunger in his voice. It’s the same hunger he instilled in me—the ruthless ambition, the desire for control, the willingness to sacrifice anything and anyone for power.

And suddenly, I’m not sure I want that for my child.

“What about the girl?” my father asks, interrupting my thoughts. “Has she agreed to the marriage?”

I grimace at the memory of her face, streaked with tears, crying at me toGet out, get out, just get the fuck out.

“Not yet,” I admit grudgingly.

“Not yet,” he repeats. “But she will, yes? She understands the opportunity being offered?”

“She’s stubborn.” I turn away, unwilling to let him see the frustration in my face. “She has notions about marriage that don’t align with our traditions.”

“Ah.Love.” He says the word like it’s a disease. “Americans are so sentimental about these things.”

“She rejected my proposal,” I say flatly. “Called it transactional. Unromantic.”

To my surprise, my father laughs—a genuine laugh, something I’ve rarely heard from him. “And is that what you need, Vincent?Romance?”

“What I need,” I snap, “is for her to be reasonable. This marriage is the best solution for everyone involved.”

“Perhaps that’s your problem.” He moves to pour himself another drink, disturbingly comfortable in my space. “Women like to believe they’re special.Chosen. Not just logical solutions.”

I stare at him, unsettled by his insight. Unsettled also by his word choice—the exact same as mine.

“The girl is entitled to her opinions, of course. But make no mistake, Vincent: The clock is still ticking. In the end, we must all do what is required of us.”

“I’m keenly aware of the timeline, Father.”

“Good.” He straightens his jacket, preparing to leave. “Then I suggest you find a way to convince Ms. St. Clair that becoming your wife is in her best interest. By whatever means necessary.”

The implied threat hangs in the air between us. I step closer, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“Let me be clear, Father: Rowan and my child are off-limits to you. Whatever game you’re playing, whatever angle you’re working, it stops at them. Do you understand me?”

Rather than being offended, he looks almost proud. “There’s the son I raised. Protective. Possessive.” He pats my cheek like I’m still a child. “Just remember, you learned everything you know from me. Including how to protect what’s yours.”

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